As a little kid I dreamt of being an architect, my imagination built buildings of various shapes, sizes, and styles so stupendous some people might make it their phone screensaver and call it art, my eyes created cities so colorful and iconic that entire cultures would pack up to come see what I had done, and my hands, my hands built bridges made of fruit roll ups, skyscrapers made of snickers, museums made of mushy marshmallows, palaces made of pepperoni pizza, and roads made of Reeses peanut butter cups because food is fucking awesome, why wouldn't you make a city out of it?

In fact I knew i wanted to be an architect by the 3rd grade when we had to make a presentation of what we wanted to do when we grow up. So I put together a slide show of different pictures of food that I thought would be pretty cool to build with, and not to be rude to any certain food I ended up with 46 slides on my slide show. As we reared presentation time my excitement grew because I could finally demonstrate exactly what I could do and when my name was called I jumped up as fast as my little Puma sneakers could carry me and with my over-sized Polo, shaggy dog hair, and dreams that were alive and real, I put all my little 3rd grade 300 beats per minute heart into that presentation and I SWEAR, I gave the Beethoven's 5th of 3rd grade slide shows. And when I clicked off that 46th slide and finished describing my Candy Cane Colosseum I looked out to my teacher, waiting for her to give me compliments like she did the other kids, but not just any compliments, I was waiting for compliments so big and so astonishing that the wall of China would be scared, I was waiting for her to tell me that I had picked the best career in the entire class, that I would be famous one day, that I would live the dream, that she wished she had chosen to become a food architect instead of a teacher, that this career was something, that I would be something... But instead she unenthusiastically explains that "although my presentation was very creative and would be receiving an A, this project was supposed to be over a real career and it was unfair to the other kids that I got to make up something". Make up something? Not a real career? Okay in what world is being a food architect not a real career because I don't want to live there. So as the snooty little 3rd grader that I was, with a smirk on my face I walked back to my seat and promised myself that I would become a food architect no matter what, because FUCK YOU Mrs. Kill your dreams, it's a real career.

I was determined to become a food architect and stick with my career, but as I sat there and began to age through the years one word stuck with me more than my career; Real. Reality. Realistically. My tiny table became a dumb desk, my 64 count box of beautiful wax crayons became mechanical pencils and blue or black ink pens that I couldn't keep up with for more than a day, and my Spiderman backpack that held my buildings made of food, became a brown Jansport that was able to hold 9 spirals, 6 folders, and 3 textbooks. As I pushed more information into one ear, my imagination began to be shoved out of the other, being a food Architect turned into just being an Architect, then being an Architect turned into just being Engineer because it's pretty much the same thing, and then being an Engineer turned into just being a job because everyone needs a job to live, and eventually having a job turned into just getting a bi-weekly paycheck. The words dream and reality, that once meant the same thing to me started to drift apart like two high-school sweethearts that end up going to college on different coasts. They started off real close, trying to be one and make it work, but after some time they just couldn't keep in touch and the long distance broke them apart. Reality spent the rest of it's college years trying to find dream, but dream had become a star and floated away into space, and for reality the sky became the limit. Money became more important than joy, working hard in school became a ploy to just scrape by and maybe one day be able to kinda support ourselves. Life became bland and boring and felt as if this was just a reality that I would have to accept, until I met her. Her name was passion, her name was joy, and her name was hope. The moment I laid my eyes on her, my eyes got a blanket and pillow and tucked themselves in because they weren't going anywhere for a long time. Love encompassed my whole body, my eyes began to float, I couldn't feel my bones, and I swear the stars began to float in her direction, slowly descending into the sky and becoming dimmer as they came close because they knew that they were of no match for her insane beauty, there was no point in trying to outshine her.

She and I began to spend much more time together, I took every chance i got, her personality was second to none, and with every word that came off of her lips it was like listening to a beautiful symphony, purpose in ever note, love in every line, dreams in all her dialogue. My mind stopped working, I couldn't even meditate for a few minutes without her passing through, I knew I just had to make my move, this was the girl you meet once in your life and would be an idiot for letting go of without taking a shot. So while we were talking and her lips made beautiful music, my mind failed to operate, my body lost all control, and everything I ever wanted was right there in front of me. Slowly, without my knowledge I leaned in, all my intuition behind me, I slowly pressed my lips up against hers, our bodies connected, and when I pulled away and opened my eyes, I was back in my seat, in 3rd grade, getting ready to jump out of my Puma sneakers to present my career of being a food architect. The words dream and reality moved back to the same town after college right then and there, they met up at a local cafe and had coffee with a couple donuts, reality still remembered dreams favorite flavor donuts, glazed with a butt load of sprinkles, and dream remembered how reality like his coffee, black, that day they became one again. Money became just a piece of paper and even the stars didn't know my limits. And after blinking a few times I was back to my life, she was gone, actually she had never been there at all, but in her place were my dreams, floating there in the middle of the air, alive, and real.

As children we imagined growing up to be rich and plentiful, to have our pockets overflowing and our bank accounts full, not with little green pieces of paper that's value is determined by the face that gets placed in the middle of it, but with little pieces of our dreams, that's value is determined by our determination and receives appreciation for their quality instead of their quantity. We wanted to be dancers, actors, and astronauts. We wanted to do what made us feel alive, we wanted to do what made others feel alive too, we wanted it one day to be just me and you. In love with each other and in love with what we do, whether rich or poor or even broke, you're gonna play a different face on a different page on a different stage every single day, Broadway or not, and for me, well... I'm gonna be a food Architect.